


Burn With Me

by dansunedisco



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha Jon Snow, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cousin Incest, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Knotting, Omega Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not soon after her bastard brother presents as an alpha, Sansa succumbs to heat fever.</p><p>-</p><p>Written for the valar-morekinks prompt asking for a/b/o with alpha!Jon and omega!Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [prompt here!](http://valar-morekinks.livejournal.com/4024.html?thread=1819832#t1819832)

Not soon after her bastard brother presents as an alpha, Sansa succumbs to heat fever. It is a mortifying development, and she cries miserably into her pillows over the humiliation even after Old Nan _and_ her own Lady Mother assure her omegas are often affected by such developments, even those of kin, and half-kin.

“The gods have given you a blessing,” Nan says, because Sansa is highborn, of good Stark and Tully breeding, and now a confirmed _omega_. A rare treasure, even in Westeros.

“But he is my _half-brother_ ,” she rebuffs, body wrecked by sobs; she is half-delirious from the heat and disgusted by her own desires. She wants nothing more than for Jon to touch her, gods be damned, and it takes every bit of learned decorum for her to keep from calling for him in desperation.

She is left alone soon enough, and she falls into a fit of hazy dreams. In them, there is only Jon, _her alpha_ , and the spicy, heady smell of him. She wakes sometime later to find herself even wetter than before, thighs sticky from the slick and whimpering like an omega in a bawdy song.

In a moment of weakness, still skating on the edge of sleep, she plunges her hand into her smallclothes to touch. She finds the tiny bud between her folds and circles it, gently and steadily, closing her eyes to imagine someone else--an alpha, _her_ alpha--between her legs. She spreads her knees wide and dares to move her finger lower, carefully dipping the digit in and out of her entrance. It feels good, and instinctual, but her body knows there is a missing piece, tights walls trying to clench down and finding her finger lacking. Still, she finds her pleasure; it crests over her like a gentle wave, and she finds shame in her actions only after she’s comes three more times.

A period of lucidity follows, and she chooses to wash herself as best she can in the basin by the empty bath. The cold water is refreshing against her fevered skin and clears her head almost as well as the touching did. She sighs. _After this, I am going to the hot springs and soaking for hours_.

She brushes the snarls and snags from her hair, and then plaits it, steadfastly ignoring the embers that begin to burn in the pit of her stomach anew. She rubs her legs together hesitantly. _How long does this wretched fever last?_ It’s barely been a day. She’s not sure how much longer she can be alone like this.

Another day passes, and Sansa soon grows miserable. Food and drink is left outside her door frequently, and her mother allows her to see Lady when she’s clearheaded enough for it, but otherwise she is left as the gods intended unpaired omegas to be. It is torture. She can read, but only for a short while, and her hands are far too unsteady for stitching. There is not much else to do but endure, and so she falls into the heat, burning, and cries out for the one thing she wants most in the entire world.

It could be days or hours later when her door is opened next. Sansa is by the hearth, currently in a state of rare clarity, but the book she is holding falls from limp fingers when she sees who comes through. “Jon?” she asks, barely able to breathe through the scent of him flooding into her chambers. Whatever memory she had of him pales in comparison, seeing him thus; she is _soaking_ her smallclothes now. “Are you real?”

“Aye,” he replies. He looks absolutely poleaxed at the sight of her.

The haze of heat has already begun to set into her bones when she approaches him. She is barely able to comprehend his presence. If he is not real, then this is the most vivid hallucination, and the most cruel. And if he is real, then this is impropriety of the highest degree. A bastard’s true nature is base, she knows, but Jon-- _her alpha--_ would never be so. He came because she called. But who would allow him to enter this wing of Winterfell unattended?

“Sansa,” Jon says, when she is finally before him. His voice holds warning, though his face is flushed, and his eyes are dark and stormy as they search hers. She watches him sway towards her, slowly, then rock back--as if catching himself.

It is noble restraint, and what unravels her further. _I need you_. She tries to tell him, but all she can manage is a meek whimper. “Jon…” She wills him to understand that she has chosen, but when he remains as still as a status, she crushes her mouth to his in desperation. He gasps against her.

The kiss is all consuming, and soon Jon is touching her face with badly shaking hands as she claws at the stays of his outer garments. “Gods, Sansa,” he gasps, and she tips her head back to bare the column of her pale throat to him; submission, and so much more. Whatever reservation Jon might have had falls away completely, and he scents her, taking in lungfuls of air even as he walks them backwards to her bed.

Clothes fall away, and when Jon touches her between her legs, she shouts so loudly she’s afraid half the castle will come running in aid--but no one does, and she opens herself wider to his fingers. “You’re so wet,” Jon says, voice catching on a pained groan. He rubs at her with his thumb, draws his fingers through her slick folds. “I imagined this for days, Sansa… I could smell your sweetness everywhere I went.”

His words drive her mad. She moans his name. “I imagined you, too,” she gasps, restless, “I touched myself and imagined it was--ah!--you…” It’s improper to tell him such things, but she doesn’t care. She is on fire for him, and she lets herself burn.

Jon works her carefully. He kisses her mouth and her jaw, laving his tongue against her throbbing pulsepoint and further down to her breasts where he licks her nipples to peaks. A flash of teeth against them has her plunging her fingers into his hair to hold him, pressing both chest and hips to him for attention and pleasure. It’s too much, yet not enough; a delicate counterpoint that soon has her sobbing for release.

Then, almost instinctively, Jon crooks his fingers inside of her. Her restlessness melts away into a contented haze--her body reacting to the sudden pressure and fullness as if it were a knot--and she comes quickly for it. Still, it’s not enough. Her body knows what Jon can provide it, and she begins to begs anew, in both body and mouth. “Please, Jon… please…” she keens, pulling him closer with her kitten-weak arms.

He promises to give her what she wants, perhaps unable to restrain his own body’s desires, and he settles above her. They share a sweet kiss, and then he enters her with a snap of his hips, groaning long and loud when he’s fully seated, like he wasn’t expecting to be affected at all. “Gods,” he prays, and sets a pace that pushes Sansa up the bed with each thrust.

It’s not long before his knot begins to grow, and the swelling of him inside of her excites Sansa as much as it frightens her, but each time she thinks about pushing him away and off her, she freezes and catches him to her instead.

The pressure increases. She feels his knot catch against her with each outward thrust, and she knows he is not long for it. It’s the thought of what’s to come that pushes her over the edge, and she comes suddenly, almost painfully, digging her fingers into his sides with a long moan. He follows, hips stuttering, expression glazed over and mouth panting as she clenches down hard on him. She can feel his seed inside of her, hotter than anything--and that, she thinks, is what finally breaks the fevered spell clouding her mind.

Clarity is sweet, but painful. They’re trapped together, face and to face, and Sansa can’t stop the tears that slip unbidden from her eyes. “What did we do?” she asks, even though she can’t bring herself to feel one bit of shame or guilt. Jon is her alpha, but he is also her half-brother. Their coupling was wrong. Against the gods. No matter how she feels, they will not be spared.

Jon’s face crumples at her words, his usual sullenness intensified. “Father-- Father gave us his blessing.” He swallows, and wipes a strand of hair from Sansa’s forehead like he can’t help but do it. “After he told me about my mother.”

 _What?_ Sansa opens her mouth to ask, but decides better of it. There would be time for questions, and answers, but it is not now. “His blessing? Do you promise?”

“On my honor,” he replies, then winces mildly. “If that means anything now.”

“If you speak truly, then it means everything.”

There is disbelief on his face, and she tries to give him a reassuring smile--possibly the first one she’s ever consciously turned his way. The smile she receives is not much more than a sad, upward twitch of his mouth. Still, he is gentle when he rolls them to their sides, and she settles up against his chest with a sigh. It’s hardly the most comfortable position, one leg thrown over his hip and the other trapped underneath, but she feels at peace in his arms. Her humiliation from days prior feels so far away now; a distant, unpleasant memory that is so at odds with her tentative happiness.

“This is strange,” she murmurs, “but I’m… I’m glad it was you.” She is.

He says nothing, but she feels his lips brush softly over her head.

 

-

 

A half hour passes before Jon is able to slip free from her; by then, she has fallen back into the fever, and Jon brings her to completion with his fingers and mouth before taking her once more, this time with her on her hands and knees. “You’re perfect,” Jon says, but Sansa can’t hear him. Her thoughts are clouded, and filled with nothing more than the scent and feel of her alpha.

 

-

 

Her first heat is intense, and lasts five days.

She comes out of it sore, muscles previously unused well and thoroughly worked, with tender skin from the rub of Jon’s beard on her chest and stomach and thighs. She refuses his leave after he’s made sure she is fed, and all but drags him into the tub of steaming water with her under the guise of helping her bathe.

They soak together for a while, Sansa’s back to his front, and it’s so pleasant to be sitting with him that she can’t imagine being anywhere else. She lifts his hand to her mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. But they cannot stay here in her chambers forever, and the time for truth is upon them.

“I would know what father told you,” she says, after a long moment, and listens raptly as he speaks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The king rides for Winterfell.

News of Sansa’s status as an omega spreads far and wide, despite her lord father’s fervent attempts to stop them. A marriageable omega from both Stark and Tully breeding is too good a tale to keep within castle walls. Winterfell’s servants are loyal to be sure, but smallfolk chatter freely and lesser lords listen well. Before long, the rookery is filled with fresh ravens and ardent letters of interest and fathers meaning to make matches -- and one such carries the seal of the king.

“All it takes is one word to be whispered in the winter town for all the kingdom to hear,” Lady Catelyn says, her voice tinged with knowing sadness as she strokes the bristle brush through Sansa’s hair, once, twice. It is evening, and they are in Sansa’s chambers.

“But for the king to come here…” Sansa folds her hands in her lap. “Why would he come all this way?”

Her lady mother pauses, fair face impassive in the looking glass as she considers Sansa’s question. She places her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “You are an omega, my sweet daughter. An omega _and_ a highborn girl from a great house. The king has a son that is close in age with you, and… And I suspect he intends to seek a betrothal between you and the prince.”

Sansa’s stomach drops. _But I am already mated!_ It has been two moons since her first heat, and her coupling to Jon Snow. Not to mention the shocking secret of his parentage. She suspected there might have been more behind King Robert’s visit, but surely… surely not what her mother implies. “But-- I-- I am already--”

Catelyn squeezes her shoulder once more; a mild warning to mind her words. “Your father will do what is in your best interest, my love. He will. Trust in that.”

Despite her mother’s assurances, Sansa is restless and sick with worry for the remainder of the night. Dinner in the Great Hall passes in a blur. She talks to Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, but if asked later, she would not be able to recall what was said between them all.

Her only point of interest is Jon, who sits at the head table beside Robb and Bran. They share glances with one another, but no words. _I need you,_ she thinks. _I need to talk to you._ She wills him to understand and, like magic, she sees him give her a tiny nod in return. She knows -- like only an alpha-omega pair can know -- that they will meet tonight.

So all there is left to do is wait, and fret. What would her lord father consider her best interest? Her heart says he would not agree to a match when she is already promised to another, entangled in a union as old as time and the gods. Her mind, however, cautions her against such sweet notions.

The truth of what happened between her and Jon is carefully guarded and greatly discouraged: for either she and her half-brother committed a sin against the very gods themselves, or Lord Eddard Stark has been harboring the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark since the war. An abomination, or treason of the highest degree; both a blight against House Stark and her family.

“--Sansa?”

She realizes then that Jeyne posed a question to her, and she gives her friend an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Jeyne. What is it that you were saying?”

“Oh, Sansa, where has your head gone?” Jeyne teases. “Were you thinking of Prince Joffrey?”

She flushes. Perhaps three moons ago, her head _would_ be in the clouds at the thought of meeting the crown prince. He is said to be comely, fair-haired and blue of eye. But she cares not for golden princes these days. Luckily, she is saved from having to lie -- both Jeyne and Beth take her silence as agreement, and they giggle at her expense. Sansa takes the teasing well and tries to keep her gaze from whom she truly desires.

 

 

Jon comes to her chambers when the moon is high, Ghost on his heels. His visits are infrequent enough that he wavers at the door, unsure of what to do or where to go, until Sansa stretches her hand out to him. “What’s happened?” he asks, coming to sit on the edge of her mattress. The distance he keeps between them does not go unnoticed by Sansa.

She decides to get to the heart of the matter. “My mother believes the king will offer to make a match between the prince and I.”

Some emotion flashes in his dark grey eyes at her words, but it melts away like snow in summer. He simply sits there, perched as if to flee from her presence at the slightest provocation, and it is his lack of response -- good or bad -- that strikes her. “You already knew,” she says, stomach twisting into a knot. “Did father tell you anything?”

He gives her a wry smile. “He didn’t have to. You presented as an omega and scarcely a month later, the king and his court ride for Winterfell… I would be a fool to believe them a coincidence.” He reddens immediately after, seemingly realizing that he implied her to be a fool. “That is-- I meant only--”

“That I am a trusting daughter,” she says, saving him from making another verbal blunder. Three moons ago, he would have offended her terribly, but three moons ago, she did not know Jon Snow at all. Instead, she is terrified. The vague knowledge that she may be parted from her mate makes the wolf inside of her _whine_. She reaches for his hand. “Jon… I don’t know what to do.”

“I haven’t given you the bonding bite,” he says, after a long moment. His expression is somber. “You would be able to bond with another--”

She snatches her hand back as if burned. “What? How can you even _imply_ that I would-- we are _mated_ \--”

“‘Mated not fated’,” he replies, though not unkindly. “We would never be able to be together, Sansa. You know this. Father warned us. An open union between us is… against the gods. Against the king. We are siblings.” _Cousins._

“ _Stop_.” His words are cruel, she thinks, and she does not want to hear another word. Her eyes sting with tears and she feels heartsick. _Mated not fated_. It is an old rhyme for alpha-omega pairs who are not meant to be, and something inside of her shatters at the idea of her mate, her _alpha_ , believing they are destined for tragedy. She does not love him -- not yet -- but she craves him. She was perfectly happy to maintain the secret between them, for years and years, and she feels a fool for not realizing that it might one day end. _It will end when the king arrives…_

“Sansa…” He inches towards her, slowly, until he is close enough to gather her into his arms.

She sobs against his chest, unable to tear herself away from his warmth, his scent. _Alpha_. She is so angry with him, but she is content to rage within the cage of his embrace. “Tell me truly… do you not care for me? Is this why you won’t fight for us?”

He gives a low growl, tightening her to him. “I never said that.” He inhales deeply, and she instinctively tips her head to the side as he begins to scent her. “If it were just you and I… there would be nothing that would stop me from having you.” She shivers. “But I can’t think selfishly. We are a pack, aren’t we?”

“Yes. A _pack,_ not a pride. We are wolves. I don’t care for lions and I never will.”

He kisses her neck, teeth teasing the soft skin of her pulse point. He strokes his thumb across her breast, her hardening nipple. “Sansa…”

“Jon… _please…_ ”

His eyes burn a molten gold before he kisses her, twisting them both to lie down across the bed. Their sudden frenzy is not unlike heat madness. She struggles out of her smallclothes as Jon angles himself away to unlace his breeches, both of them trading desperate kisses until they are naked enough, and he enters her with a single, powerful thrust. “Ah!” she cries out, blunted nails now sharp biting into the muscles of his back.

They haven’t coupled since the first time, but they fall into a rhythm as natural as breathing, hips rolling as the wave of pleasure builds between them. She is so close, and so soon. She spreads her knees apart, hardly believing how good she can feel outside of a heat.

Jon presses up to hold himself above her, suddenly changing their harried pace into slow, glacial movements. “Do you want me to bond you?”

His voice is low, and promising, and Sansa screws her eyes shut, gasping open-mouthed at the thought of Jon sinking his teeth into her neck, bonding them forever, body and soul. “Gods…”

“I could.” He settles back down against her, the change in angle rubbing his pelvis against her bud all the more. He kisses her collarbone, her cheek, her mouth; nips at her bottom lip. “But not tonight… I mustn’t…”

He does not complete the bond as promised, but Sansa can tell that holding himself back is no easy task -- he keeps pressing his nose to her neck, teeth flashing against her skin in no particular fashion, and all of it together is enough to bring her to her peak. She falls into a loose-limbed haze afterwards, her wolf content to have gotten what it wanted all along, and she holds Jon to her as he comes to completion too.

The afterglow is pleasant enough, and Sansa can’t help but smiling as Jon strokes her hair absently. Even so, she can already tell that Jon is beginning to withdraw back into himself, and it quickly tempers her happiness.

 _I won’t be parted with you_ , she thinks. If he will not fight, she will rouse him to. She might not have swords, but she has her words. She brings his hand to her mouth, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “We have a month,” she says.

“A month?”

“Yes. A month to plan. I trust father, but… he cannot deny the king, can he? So we must find another way to be together. If he can’t convince the king that I am not suited for his son.”

“He will require a great amount of convincing.” He huffs. “You’re much more stubborn than I imagined, you know.”

“You dreamt of me, then?”

He reddens again, and she draws up to give him a kiss to lessen her teasing. _Mated and fated_ , she vows. _We are meant to be._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ the pwp smut addition

Sansa wakes the next morning with Jon curled up behind her, his hardness pressing at her buttocks and the small of her back. It’s the only time he’s stayed the night, outside of her first heat. The realization warms her chest and the place between her thighs in equal turns, his mere presence stoking the embers of want inside of her. Her heart picks up pace unbidden as she imagines him filling her up, holding her against him as he gives sinks his teeth into her neck, but she lies still instead; she wants desperately to cant her hips back and let Jon take her again and again, but she’s more afraid to shatter the peace of the morning.

It doesn’t take long for Jon to stir awake, perhaps sensing her shift in mood or something else, and his hands move slowly, deliberately from her hip, her ribs, and up to her breast. He presses a soft kiss to the nape of her neck and she quickly moves her fingers to her mouth to press back a moan. He tweaks her nipple then, smoothing it a moment later with a gentle brush of his thumb. She squeezes her thighs together. “Jon…”

“I’m here,” he whispers, kissing her shoulder. “I’m here, Sansa.”

Tears spring to her eyes and she arches her back, wet enough already that Jon slips between her folds and inside of her with a single breath. He groans softly into her hair and lets her choose the rhythm with her hips. She feels full, the friction inside of her soothing that primal instinct that he unleashed inside of her, and for now, the languid push and pull of their bodies is enough. 

A golden glow settles over her; and she curls her hand up and slots their fingers together, presses their hands to her heart, wondering how Jon ever expects her to even  _ think  _ about giving him up. She feels loved and cherished,  _ whole.  _ Last night was the first time they coupled outside of a heat, a flurry of passion. This morning, it feels like something more, intangible, but ever so sweet.

Then, just as quickly as this started, Jon untangles their hands and grabs under her knee, opens her wider and changes the angle. She cries out, moans his name, fingers scrambling on the bedsheet for purchase as he rolls his cock into her. Then, she feels it: the knot. She knows it shouldn’t be possible, coupling outside of a heat, but there were tales -- whispers -- of mated pairs who could. Her walls flutter around him, around this new girth her body isn’t yet prepared for, but she pushes through the sting to sit back fully onto him, marveling at the pressure before she locks him inside of her. Her breath stutters and he grunts like he’s dying, like he’s been hit; and he surges up onto his knees, dragging Sansa up against his chest, panting heavily as he grinds in a slow circle into her. She’s caught by the throat, dangling on a precipice of sweet release for but a moment before she comes so hard she sees stars. 

She blinks back into existence in her chambers, head tilted back over Jon’s shoulder. He’s got his hand down between her legs, finger circling her bud slowly, and he’s keeping her trapped against his chest with a solid forearm under her breasts. It doesn’t take long before she comes again, a gentle crest that feels as easy as anything she’s done before. She moans his name.

“Tell me your mine,” he growls, and she easily agrees, parrots back, “I’m yours, I’m yours.”


End file.
